Pick a Pocket for a Frame-Up
by IcyWaters
Summary: Jody Barker's sticky fingers land him in a world of trouble when he finds himself behind bars, the prime suspect in the murder of a prominent citizen. Yancy Derringer sets out to prove his friend's innocence.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: _Yancy Derringer_ debuted October 2, 1958 on CBS. The show was created by Mary Loos and Richard Sale, and produced by Derringer Productions. I do not know who owns the current rights to this great series, but it sadly isn't me.

Author's Note: This story is dedicated to the memories of the late Jock Mahoney and X Brands. They made a hell of a team.

* * *

"_What you want is a rakehelly, a rogue, a scoundrel, a gentleman, a smuggler, a gambler—and a fool."_

—Yancy Derringer, "Return to New Orleans"

**Pick a Pocket for a Frame-Up**

**Chapter 1  
"Morning at the Calaboose"**

"Oops, sorry, sir." Jody Barker reached out to steady the pudgy fellow he collided with, deftly smoothing imaginary wrinkles from the coat. He then tipped his bowler hat in further apology. The charitable act earned him a sneer as his mark bristled away.

With his average build and looks, the unassuming Jody smirked and lined up his next target. A young man dressed in expensive threads, complete with the gold chain of a pocket watch glittering in the morning sun, sauntered right in his direction. Bowing his head, he strode forward, bumping into the unsuspecting dandy.

"Pardon me,"—Jody helped to straighten the lapels—"my fault entirely."

This time, his victim tipped his hat to Jody. "No harm, Monsieur, I assure you."

Slowing his pace by the flower stand, he was about to duck around the corner to inspect his haul when he spied an older couple strolling the length of Bourbon Street arm in arm. He leaned in to smell the roses. When the couple came within reach, he turned right into them while fixing his pilfered boutonniere. "Oh, terribly sorry," Jody said with a short bow, before stepping aside and continuing onward.

He failed to keep the grin off his face. Last night had been good for business. It always was when a new show opened at the opera house and New Orleans high society came out in droves. Women paraded the latest fashions and jewels from Europe while men flaunted the beauties on their arms, complete with thick wallets lining their coats.

To his pleasant surprise, the morning was shaping up to be just as fruitful. While he preferred to prowl the night, he looked forward to taking breakfast at the small café on Decatur Street. Last week, a sweet blonde waitress flirted with him. Jody hoped she was there this morning, too.

He ducked into the nearest alley—out of sight of passersby—and pulled his haul from his tweed jacket. The gold watch promised to fetch a tidy sum. Jody's vanity took a hit when he opened one of the wallets. Closing his gaping mouth, he stuffed the lonely sawbuck in his pocket, tossed the useless billfold to the ground and tried the next.

A wad of beautiful greenbacks greeted his eyes. His grin spreading wider, he inspected the third. It didn't hold as much loot, but it was still a significant haul for a few minutes of work.

Ready to discard the empty wallets, a glint caught his attention. Jody took a closer look and discovered a gold coin stuffed inside a hidden compartment stitched into the leather. He wiggled it free. It was French, but not like any franc in New Orleans. To start with, it featured a chubby old man instead of Napoleon.

Unsure if it held any value—he had come across commemorative coins not worth a cent—Jody considered his options. He bit into it. Near as he could tell, it was gold. Taking a cue from his friend Yancy, he decided to exchange it at the bank for good old American money.

* * *

Friend jailer sat with both elbows propped on the table, cards pressed to his nose. "Just one for me."

"I'll take two." Yancy Derringer laid his cards face down in order to deal the draw. From the corner of his vision, he detected a subtle straightening in Pahoo's shoulders while waiting for the bet. The Pawnee Indian, sitting on the bunk beneath the window of their regular calaboose accommodations, shifted to make a brief sign. "Pahoo says someone is coming."

The turnkey's eyebrows knitted in confusion as he glanced back and forth between his two favorite guests. "How'd you do that? You weren't even looking at him."

Yancy shrugged. "Pahoo can be loud when he wants to be."

"Aw, Yancy," the turnkey grumbled, twitching his thick moustache, "do you always have to joke about everything?" With a shake of his head, he added, "Thanks, Pahoo."

Scrambling to his feet, the keeper of the keys tossed his poker hand down, shoved the bottle of wine under the blanket of the nearby cot and buttoned his jacket. He stopped mid-turn when he thought better and grabbed his cards from the tabletop, stashing them in his pocket away from prying eyes. "Sorry, Yance," he said while locking the cell door, "but the administrator issued new orders about keeping prisoners secured."

"No offense inferred, friend jailer." Yancy smiled, stifling a small chuckle while gathering the remaining cards. A knock resounded on the iron door separating the calaboose from the main office. It swung open and he glanced up to find Captain Amos Fry, head of the New Orleans Secret Service, escorting Jody Barker in. "Oh, Jody," he playfully admonished, "don't tell me you picked the captain's pocket again?"

"I'm afraid it's far more serious this time, Mr. Derringer," Fry replied, stopping the turnkey when he moved to unlock Yancy's quarters. He guided his prisoner by the arm into the empty cell across from the gambler. "Mr. Barker is charged with murder. He's to be detained in solitary per Mr. Colton's orders."

"Murder?" Yancy bolted from the chair.

Fry offered him a sympathetic glance before motioning for the turnkey to join him in the office. When the iron door shut, Yancy wrapped his fingers around the bars. "What's this all about, Jody?"

"I–I don't know, Yance, honest."

"Who did they say you murdered?"

"I–I don't know," the sneak thief repeated, shaky hands fidgeting with his clothes. "They mentioned a name, but it didn't ring any bells. I swear I didn't kill him. You know me, Yancy. I'm a born coward and proud of it. When fists fly and bullets whiz, I scram. Mother deplores violence."

A faint smile formed on his lips. "I believe you, Jody."

"Then you'll help me?"

"Of course, but you need to tell me more. How did this all start?"

"Well, I found a few wallets this morning—"

Yancy frowned. "The truth, Jody."

"It's true," Jody insisted, patting his left breast, "I found them in my pocket."

Yancy pressed an index finger to the side of his nose and laughed. "Go on."

"There was a gold coin hidden inside one of them. It was French, but not like anything spent on Bourbon Street. Old Pete down at the pawnshop never cuts me a fair deal, but I remembered what you told me about banks exchanging foreign money for greenbacks when that Russian"—he snapped his fingers—"What's his name?"

"The Grand Duke Alexis?" Yancy offered.

"Yeah, that's him. I remembered what you told me about the funny money, so I thought I'd try the bank. They finagled the coin away from me and then kept me waiting around. Something smelled fishy, but the guard standing at the entrance kept his hand on his gun. Made me nervous. That's when it all gets fuzzy. Captain Fry arrived and here I am."

Yancy leaned against the bars. "I'll wager that coin belonged to the deceased. You may have lifted it from the real murderer. Can you identify the man who," he paused, "lost his wallet?"

"Maybe, if I saw him again. What if he skedaddles? How are you going to prove me innocent?"

"Step one, Pahoo and I need to get out of here."

Possessing the gift of perfect timing, friend jailer returned. "Sorry to keep you waiting, Yancy." He pulled the cards from his pocket and, sporting a big grin, spread them on the table. "Three queens."

Yancy pointed to the neatly arranged deck with an innocent expression.

"Oh, why do you only do that when I have good hand?"

"I thought I'd kill some time with a game of lopsided solitaire." Sliding his tall, slender frame into a chair, Yancy collected the five remaining cards and shuffled the deck. "What do you say we play for an early release for Pahoo and me?"

The turnkey scratched his head. "Pahoo is here voluntarily. He can leave anytime."

"Then my early release. I only have six hours to go on my sentence."

"This might not be such a good idea, Yancy. The administrator won't like it. He gave me an earful last week when you slipped out of here. He didn't believe it when I explained how you slugged me." The turnkey massaged his jaw for emphasis.

"Mr. Colton is a reasonable man. He didn't order my re-arrest."

"Not until the fight at the Charter House a couple days later…"

"Exactly," Yancy said. "Your report can state it was on grounds of good behavior." Sensing his friend was on the cusp of agreeing, he strengthened his reasoning. "Have Pahoo and I been a nuisance?"

"Oh, no, Yancy. I like having you here."

"Then it's settled." He began dealing when the turnkey sighed and pushed the cards away.

"I'll save you the trouble. You're free to go."

"Thank you, friend jailer." Yancy rose from his seat with a short bow and retrieved his white jacket from the wall hook. Pahoo joined him in front of Jody's cell. "Don't worry, I'll get you out of here."

"Thanks, Yancy. Will you tell Mother I'm all right? She worries."

"Of course." With a parting nod, the two men went to the office to retrieve their belongings. Starting with the weapons stowed in the desk drawer, Yancy tucked one four-barrel Sharps derringer pistol in the pocket of his brocade vest and a second up his ruffled sleeve. He hid a small dagger in his belt and tossed a larger knife to Pahoo, who slid the blade into the sheath strapped to his back.

Moving to the corner of the room, Yancy fetched his pillbox crown gambler's hat, where a third derringer made its home, and collected his cane, which concealed a rapier. Pahoo took his 16-gauge, double barrel scattergun from the cabinet, strapped it to his side and adjusted the blanket over his shoulder to cloak the weapon.

Ready to take their leave, the turnkey joined them with the bottle from earlier in his grasp. "We're running low on wine. Will you have some more brought over for your next visit?"

Yancy grinned.

* * *

John Colton peered up from the paperwork covering his desk when the unlikely duo of a debonair Southern aristocrat and his fierce Pawnee blood brother ambled through the door. "Hello, Yancy, Pahoo." His gaze traced to the grandfather clock. "I didn't expect to see you for another few hours."

Pahoo signed a greeting and stood alert by the entrance of the opulent office.

Eyes dancing with mischief, Yancy placed his hat and cane on the credenza before taking a seat across from the federal administrator. "Friend jailer permitted me an early release for good behavior."

Shaking his head, Colton smiled. "I'll let it slide for the moment. Right now, matters that are far more serious demand my attention. Rutherford Devereaux was murdered in his home."

"So that's who Jody is accused of killing. What happened?"

"Mr. Devereaux and his daughter, Lorelei, attended last night's premiere at the opera house. When they returned home, Miss Devereaux retired to her chambers while her father withdrew to the library for a cigar after dismissing the servants. A gunshot startled her awake just after midnight. He didn't have a prayer. The bullet struck his heart."

"The murderer also stole Mr. Devereaux's wallet and thus his coin."

"How did you—" Colton paused, waving off the answer on his friend's lips. "Mr. Barker."

"You did arrest my friend."

"Your friend is up to his neck in trouble. The victim's wallet, ring and jeweled tiepin went missing." Colton retrieved the coin from his top desk drawer and passed it to Yancy. "According to Miss Devereaux, her father acquired this rare twenty franc Louis d'or during a trip to Paris when she was a child. He carried it with him at all times as a good luck charm."

"It appears his luck ran out," Yancy said, examining the engraving. "I've heard about it, but this is the first time I've seen it. How can you be so sure this is the same Louis d'or that was stolen?"

Colton arched curious eyebrows at that comment, but continued without voicing his question. "Miss Devereaux described the notch on the edge."

While Yancy inspected the flaw, the administrator circled the desk and leaned on the front of it. "That coin is one of a small number minted in 1814 under the reign of King Louis XVIII. The French Consul here in New Orleans is only aware of one in circulation and that was in a small village outside Marseille, France, over a decade ago. Collectors seize them at first sight. I doubt many are floating around the city."

"So you notified the banks to be on the lookout for unusual currency," Yancy surmised.

"I also sent my men undercover to the pawnshops and jewelry stores seeking the other stolen items," Colton added. "Your friend, Mr. Barker, walked into the National Bank with that in his possession."

"Jody no more murdered Rutherford Devereaux than I did." Yancy passed the coin back. "This is circumstantial at best, John. Jody is a pickpocket—one of the finest."

"Miss Devereaux swears her father had possession of his wallet after the opera. They stopped at a coffeehouse to chat with friends following the performance where he treated."

"I didn't say he pinched it last night. Jody told me he found the coin in a wallet he lifted this morning. That means he took it from the real killer. Besides, Jody deplores violence."

"And you believe him?" At the nod, Colton sighed. "Yancy, your friendship with this man is clouding your judgment." He reached across the desk and pulled a revolver from the drawer. "For a pickpocket who deplores violence, Captain Fry found this on Mr. Barker's person."

"Has it been fired recently?"

"No, but—"

"Did it have any bullets in it?"

Colton's shoulders sagged. "No."

Yancy smiled. "Jody uses that as a prop when people aren't inclined to share. He may talk tough, but he doesn't have the stomach to squeeze the trigger."

"You're making this difficult, Yancy." Colton pinched the bridge of his nose. "I certainly don't want to convict an innocent man, but he's all we've got. The shadier denizens of the city who might have information won't come forward, not to my men anyway. Use your connections. Find me the real killer."

"Oh, I will. You can count on it."

"Good." As his underground agent began to rise, Colton stopped him. "Earlier, you said you heard about that coin, but had never seen it. How well did you know Rutherford Devereaux?"

Yancy crossed one leg over the other and folded his hands on his knee. "We crossed paths from time to time, but our families weren't close. To Rutherford Devereaux, we Derringers were the devils on earth."

Colton laughed. From the moment he first arrived in New Orleans to take on the role of federal administrator, he heard Yancy's name spoken with the greatest respect from the highest places to the lowest—especially the lowest. While this Southern aristocrat remained a riddle in many ways, he was proud to call him a friend. Whatever issue Devereaux had, it was his loss. "Should I even ask?"

"Did I ever tell you how my daddy came into possession of the _Sultana_?"

"No."

Yancy grinned. "A couple of years before the war, my daddy learned of a new riverboat being built in Pittsburgh. She was said to be the sleekest and most powerful ever constructed, with the finest engine and boiler to date. My daddy just had to have her, so he took off to Pennsylvania. Problem was, Mr. Devereaux beat him there."

Colton failed to hide his surprise. "Someone actually got the best of a Derringer?"

"He hired some hustlers to derail my daddy on his way, but that's a different story altogether. A few months later, they squared off in a high stakes poker game aboard the _Sultana_ on her maiden voyage. Rutherford ran out of money; confident in his four of a kind, he put up the boat's title." Yancy's grin grew wider, devilish sparks shining in his eyes. "When I was a boy, my daddy always said the only thing sweeter than a royal flush is a kiss from a beautiful woman. Not even a kiss could compete with the royal flush in his hand that night."

Colton snorted. "Tell me, did your great grandfather win Waverly in a poker game?"

"We Derringers are the devils on earth." With a wink, Yancy rose from the chair and pulled his wallet from his inner jacket pocket. "How much is Jody's bail? I could use his help identifying the man who lost that Louis d'or."

"I'm afraid I can't. He's our—"

"Only lead in the case," Yancy finished in the same beat, tucking his wallet away with a sigh before gathering his hat and cane. "I'll see you later, Mr. Colton."

"Yancy, I want your word that you and Pahoo won't try breaking Jody Barker out of jail."

"The thought never crossed my mind"—the gambler smiled—"Not until you mentioned it, anyway."

Colton's cheeks flushed a shade of red rivaling his hair. "Yancy!"

"Don't worry. Pahoo and I are heading to Waverly so I can take a hot bath and change clothes. White is hardly a proper color to wear when paying one's respects."

He arched an eyebrow. "Moments ago, you said your families weren't close."

"You surprise me, John. For a Yankee who's been in New Orleans as long as you, I thought you would be aware by now that beautiful Southern belles are far more gracious than their cantankerous fathers."

Shaking his head, Colton returned to his stack of paperwork, all the while wondering how much damage the city would sustain this time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Pick a Pocket for a Frame-Up**

**Chapter 2  
"Miss Lorelei"**

Beneath clear skies and warm sun, hooves kicked up tufts of dirt, lacing the fresh air with an earthy scent. Pahoo slowed his horse to a stop and made a series of hand gestures in the Plains Indian sign language used by his people.

"Yes, Pahoo, it is strange. We should be looking upon sugarcane ready for harvest."

Yancy's grip on the reins tightened as he urged his mount onward along the neglected back road leading to the manor house at Tulip Hall, the Devereaux's plantation. Gone were the lush green crops he remembered from the time he pursued Rutherford's older daughter more than a decade ago. Barren fields stretched as far as the eye could see, stunning him to the core. Rutherford Devereaux owned some of the most fertile soil in Louisiana, yet the lands now sat empty sans the overgrown weeds.

It was a feeling he would never grow accustomed to—a feeling he didn't want to grow accustomed to.

When Union forces under the command of Admiral Farragut captured New Orleans early on in the war, she fell quickly, sparing her from the destruction suffered by other Confederate cities. However, the same could not be said for the plantations in the outlying areas. Manor houses not used as billets for Northern troops were often sacked and burned.

Only a few of the grand estates Yancy remembered as a child still stood in all their grandeur.

After the fighting ceased, those that survived the bloodshed slowly began rebuilding the rubble. Cotton, sugarcane and tobacco crops flourished once again. Somehow, he pictured Tulip Hall withstanding the devastation. Rutherford was a prominent citizen who flaunted his wealth by attending every social function, engaging in high stakes pursuits and savoring the finer things in life. Why did he neglect his lands?

Yancy received a partial answer when they reached their destination. The manor house, with its gleaming white walls and massive columns, stood as pristine as it did ten years ago, seemingly untouched by the ravages of war. Rutherford apparently plowed all of his money into his home. Yet the question still lingered as to how he afforded such luxury. Riverboat shipping contracts didn't pay that well.

They dismounted and secured the reins, Yancy taking care to brush the dust from his blue suit. An elderly servant answered the door and showed them to the parlor. Thick luxurious carpets covered the floors, crystal chandeliers hung from the ceilings and fine porcelain vases sat atop handsomely carved furniture. Yancy exchanged a curious glance with Pahoo.

Moments later, a young woman dressed in black paused just inside the room. Red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks stood out against her ashen complexion. Her arms hugged her slender waist in a timid stance. This Lorelei Devereaux was but a hollow shell of the bubbly girl filled with dreams of a bright future who he danced with on the night of her debutante ball.

"Miss Lorelei, I don't know if you remember me. I'm Yancy Derringer."

A glimmer ignited in her eyes and a faint smile formed on her lips. "It's been a long time," she said in a heavy Southern accent. "I may not have recognized you, Yancy, but I could never forget you." She swept deeper into the parlor, a slight bounce to her step, when she caught sight of Pahoo by the window. Lorelei gasped and visibly stiffened.

"This is my Pawnee friend, Pahoo-Ka-Ta-Wah, Wolf Who Stands in Water."

"H–Hello," she managed to croak while simultaneously backing up toward the settee.

Hiding his amusement, Yancy joined her as she took a seat and declined the offer of tea. "I came to offer my condolences on the loss of your father."

She slowly relaxed and a flicker of the earlier exuberance shone once again. "If Daddy could see you in his house right now, he'd be cussing up a storm." The exuberance vanished as quickly as it appeared and she lowered her head. "For a moment, I could picture Daddy sitting in his favorite chair,"—she pointed at the Chesterfield in the corner—"his ears growing redder by the second as he berated the Derringer clan."

"We did share a colorful history," Yancy added softly.

"I still can't believe he's gone," Lorelei whispered, a single tear falling down her cheek.

Yancy wiped it away with his thumb. "Where's the rest of your family?"

"Why, you're looking at her. I'm the sole one left." She inhaled a long, deep breath and folded her hands in her lap. "My daddy survived the war, my brother didn't. When the Yankees captured New Orleans, they shelled our home. Only the west side was damaged, but we couldn't very well live here. Mama, Annabelle and I fled to Georgia to stay with relatives. Then one day, we heard the cannons in the distance, forcing us to flee again and come back home. Mama got sick on the way…"

"What became of Annabelle?" Images of the beautiful brunette danced before Yancy's eyes. She incurred her father's wrath on more than one occasion for slipping out of the house to meet him under the oak tree by the lake. Not once did Rutherford's threats sway her from the next rendezvous. Yancy admired her all the more for it.

"You didn't hear?" Lorelei's arms trembled as she played with an object in her hands. Yancy didn't notice it earlier, but she carried a man's pocket watch with her, the chain wrapped around her wrist. "My sister married after the war and moved to Missouri. She was expecting her first child. Annabelle and the baby died during childbirth."

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you, Yancy. She always did fancy you, but you weren't the marrying type."

For once, he didn't feel like uttering a quip about his bachelor status. As silence descended between them, he observed her fidgeting with the watch. "Did that belong to your father?"

"Yes," Lorelei replied with a wistful smile. "Mama gave it to him for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. He treasured it almost as much as he did that silly coin of his. The... the fiend who shot him ran off without taking it. In a way, it's all I have left of Daddy."

"May I?" No well-dressed gentleman would dare attend the opera without a fashionable timepiece. According to John Colton, Devereaux's wallet, ring and tiepin were not found on the body. Why didn't the murderer steal the watch, too?

"Of course." She unwound the chain from her wrist and passed it to him.

Yancy flipped the lid open and read the engraving. He felt Pahoo watching him intently. "It's very nice," he said, passing it back to her. "Did your father have any enemies?"

Her head snapped up. "Now what kind of question is that?"

"I want to find the person responsible."

She reached over and squeezed his hand. "I thank you, Yancy, but the authorities sent word they captured the murderer this morning. He's some filthy Bourbon Street pickpocket."

"Tulip Hall is a long way for a Bourbon Street pickpocket to travel for a few greenbacks and trinkets."

Lorelei withdrew her hand. "I don't think I like where this conversation is going."

"This won't be easy for you to accept, but the wrong man—" Yancy stopped when Pahoo signaled that a newcomer arrived at the front door. He listened as a servant welcomed the visitor.

"Lorelei, Lorelei."

She sprung to her feet at the sound of the voice. A short, broad shouldered fellow with a square jaw and black hair entered the parlor. His genial disposition faded when his gaze landed on the settee. Lorelei greeted him with a kiss on the cheek. "I'm glad you're here. Yancy, this is my fiancé, Clayton Matthews. Clay, this is—"

"Derringer doesn't require any introductions. His dubious reputation precedes him everywhere he goes." Matthews glanced towards Pahoo. "As does that savage he keeps."

Yancy joined his friend by the window. "Your definition of savage differs from mine, Mr. Matthews. Pahoo has far better manners than some in this room."

"You have a lot of nerve, Derringer."

"Clay," Lorelei admonished, "What's gotten into you? Yancy is a guest in my home."

"I don't trust him. Neither did your father," Matthews replied. "Why is he here?"

She sighed in exasperation. "Yancy came to offer his condolences."

"Is that all?" Matthews took her by the shoulders, forcing her to raise her chin to meet his eyes. A shadow fell over her face and he aimed an angry stare on the gambler. "Tell me, Lorelei."

"He was asking about Daddy," she whispered, "If he had any enemies."

"Exactly what kind of game are you playing at, Derringer? Can't you see she's grieving?" Matthews let go of Lorelei and stalked closer to the window. "Everyone in New Orleans knows the company you keep. Did one of your lowlife friends squeeze the trigger? Need to absolve a guilty conscience?"

Sensing Pahoo reaching for his scattergun, Yancy made a series of quick signs for him to relax. He then straightened to his full height, towering over Matthews. "You're quick to condemn a man without a trial."

Matthews snorted. "This coming from a gambler who treats the calaboose as a second home."

Yancy offered his best insolent smirk. "It's quite comfortable." Growing serious, he added, "The man behind bars is named Jody Barker. He is not a lowlife"—he addressed Lorelei directly—"and he did not kill your father. I'll stake my life on it." Yancy refocused on Matthews. "The question I'm asking myself right now is why you're so eager to hang him on circumstantial evidence."

"Get out," Matthews demanded.

"If you wish." As the two took their leave, Yancy slowed at the threshold and bowed to the couple. "Good day, Miss Devereaux, Mr. Matthews." At the horses outside, Pahoo signed a question. The carriage stopping in the driveway interrupted his answer.

"Yancy? Yancy Derringer!" Now in his early sixties, Daniel Hollingsworth was older, grayer and plumper around the middle, but his gravelly voice was unmistakable. He helped the woman accompanying him down from the vehicle and closed the distance between them. "By Jove, it is you. Don't look any the worse for wear, either, considering we heard you were killed in the war."

"I managed to get by," Yancy replied, shaking his hand. "It's good to see you, Dan. I'm surprised we haven't run into each other at Madame Francine's club. You were a pretty mean poker player."

"I don't play much anymore. Oh, I don't believe you met my wife. Yancy, this is Lydia."

She was about a decade younger than husband was and wore her hair pinned tightly back under the latest style of hat. It emphasized the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and lips, giving her already stern visage an even harsher edge. Yancy took her gloved hand. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." Lydia barely acknowledged the compliment.

Dan's gaze drifted to the manor house. "It's a shame. Rutherford and I fought in the same unit. To think we managed to survive all those battles and he meets his end like this. Shot in his home by a petty thief." He heaved a loud sigh. "It just doesn't seem fair."

"No, it doesn't," Yancy agreed.

Lydia took her husband's arm. "Come, Daniel, we shouldn't keep Mr. Derringer any longer."

"She's right. We came to pay our respects and to see if Lorelei needs anything. See you later, Yancy." Dan nodded goodbye and escorted his wife up the steps.

Yancy tipped his hat to the couple and swung onto the saddle. As they guided their mounts onto the main road, he answered his friend's earlier question. "The pocket watch was engraved with Rutherford Devereaux's name. It only took a few hours for word of his death to hit the papers. Not a single fence in New Orleans would have touched it after that."

Pahoo added another observation.

"I agree. The killer was acquainted with the watch, that's why he—or she—didn't take it." He peered over his shoulder at the estate disappearing on the horizon. "Mr. Devereaux knew his killer."

* * *

"Hello, Celestial Lady." Yancy pressed his palms together and bowed.

Miss Mandarin smiled. "Good afternoon, Yancy." The petite Chinese proprietor of the Sazerac, one of finest restaurants in New Orleans, permitted him to kiss her hand. "Please, no trouble today, for me."

"Your wish is my command. Unless it would it be trouble to get two of your thickest steaks?"

"Always a rascal," she teased, showing him to the best table in the house.

Yancy motioned for Pahoo to join him in the late lunch. When their meal concluded, he sipped the last remnants of wine from his goblet. Miss Mandarin approached the table with a dubious expression on her lovely face. "Yancy, there is a young woman to see you."

He glanced toward the entrance and both men stood when Lorelei Devereaux strode toward them. She wore the same black dress from their early afternoon encounter with a black veil now cloaking her features. Lorelei folded it over her hat. The red-rimmed eyes were gone; determination took their place. "May I have a moment of your time, Mr. Derringer?"

He pulled a chair out for her. As he returned to his own, Miss Mandarin leaned in and whispered in his ear, "Remember, Yancy, no trouble." He chuckled as she walked away.

"I didn't expect to see again you so soon, Lorelei."

She nodded at Pahoo, evidently no longer intimidated by the Pawnee Indian. "I want to apologize for Clayton's behavior. It was uncalled for and rude. You and Daddy didn't always get along, but he enjoyed the difference of opinion."

"Now you didn't come all this way just to apologize for your fiancé." He arched a suspicious eyebrow. "How did you know where to find me?"

"You're not difficult to track down, Yancy. Word on the street said you usually enjoy lunch at the Charter House or the Sazerac when you're in the city. Considering you just got out of calaboose for, uh, redecorating the Charter House,"—she grinned—"this seemed like a safe bet."

"Touché, Miss Lorelei." Yancy chuckled. "Why are you here?"

"Clay doesn't know I've come to see you. May we keep this between us?" At his nod, she continued, "I've been thinking about what you said in regards to Mr. Barker. Do you really believe him to be innocent of killing Daddy?"

"Yes, I do."

Lorelei's shoulders slumped as she rested her hands on the table. Her head bowed, she spoke in a hoarse whisper. "It hurts deep in here"—she pressed fingers to her heart—"to realize he's never coming back, that I'm never going to see him again." Fighting back tears, she lifted her gaze, her voice growing stronger. "The knowledge that Daddy's murderer is going to hang for what he did alleviated some of the pain, but I don't want another innocent man to die. What can I do to help?"

"You're a remarkable woman, Miss Lorelei."

She blushed.

"I have to ask you some questions you may not like."

"Fire away, Mr. Derringer."

"Since you are the sole heir of the Devereaux estate, do you inherit everything?"

"Yes."

"Did your father appoint a guardian to oversee his ventures in the event of his death?"

"No, there's not much to oversee," Lorelei replied. "On your way to Tulip Hall, you must have noticed we aren't raising any crops. Daddy began neglecting his riverboats a few months ago, so it fell to me to take care of the day to day matters and negotiate the shipping contracts." She leaned back in the chair and sighed. "As long as I'm being entirely truthful, there's something you should know."

Yancy exchanged a glance with Pahoo.

"All I inherit is a boatload of debt, enough to sink me to the bottom of the Mississippi."

"How can that be?" Yancy's forehead furrowed in confusion. "Your home is immaculate, your father owned two riverboats and he made sure to display his good fortune at every opportunity."

"It was all an act, an illusion. Daddy refused to admit being poor. The house, land, boats, even the warehouse at the dock… they all have mortgages, second mortgages, lines of credit."

Yancy leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Is your fiancé aware of this?"

"Yes. Clay and I don't have secrets."

He wasn't convinced of the hotheaded Matthews' morality, but he let it slide for the moment. "Why didn't your father invest in his land? Bidding wars broke out over the sugarcane Tulip Hall produced before the war. In a matter of a year or two, your plantation could match those harvests. Times are hard; there are many who would be happy to work the fields in exchange for room and board."

"I argued those same points, Yancy, but Daddy came home from the war—different. He lived in the here and now, not worrying about what tomorrow would bring. I don't really blame him. I can't even begin to imagine what he saw during those years. We huddled in the root cellar off the washhouse when Farragut's men shelled our home. Never been so scared in my life! That was until the fighting broke out in Georgia. Listening to those cannons just over the hill… I still wake up at night hearing them."

"There's something I don't understand, Lorelei. Where did your father get the money to rebuild your home? The money to buy new riverboats after the Union sank his?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," she replied with a shrug. "Couldn't get a straight answer out of him. He maintained he stashed some away before his regiment pulled out. It always seemed strange to me how he had so much gold when he returned home."

"He didn't tell you where he hid it?"

"No. I'm certain Mama didn't know about its existence. When we left, we weren't sure we were ever coming back. She would have brought it with us, used it to help her family. Annabelle was as mystified as I was."

Something didn't add up. It was common practice for Southern families to hide their valuables from the Yankees, but they rarely withheld this information from their own relatives. "Why hasn't the bank started foreclosing on your father's properties if he's in as much debt as you claim?"

"Ask Mr. Hollingsworth."

"Mr. Hollingsworth? As in Dan Hollingsworth?"

"He handles—handled—Daddy's finances."

"Since when has he been in the banking business?"

"He's on the board of directors at a bank in Baton Rouge. It's a distance to be sure, but Daddy trusted him. They were especially close after the war. I often wonder if Mr. Hollingsworth saved his life or something like that. You know how stubborn Daddy could be—he refused to talk about it."

Yancy chuckled, having experienced the Devereaux stubbornness first-hand. He paid the bill and escorted the lady to her carriage waiting around the corner. "If I may be so bold, Lorelei—"

Her eyes glittered. "When have you ever _not_ been bold, Yancy?"

"Your daddy did call me a devil," he quipped. Once she was seated, he rested an elbow on the edge of the vehicle. "Mr. Matthews made no qualms regarding his dislike for me and my pursuits. Your father shared in some of those same pursuits. How did you two end up engaged?"

A melodious laugh escaped her lips and he was happy to see a glimmer of the Lorelei he once knew. "Clay said it himself. He fell in love with me, not my daddy. We all have eccentric kinfolk, Yancy. Clay may look down on gambling and your other, ahem, activities, but he accepted Daddy because it's important to me."

"Love is blind, eh?"

"It can conquer all."

She waved goodbye. He watched the carriage vanish around the corner and turned to Pahoo. "Love may be blind and may conquer all, but it also has a long history as a motive for murder."


	3. Chapter 3

**Pick a Pocket for a Frame-Up**

**Chapter 3  
"Poker, Treasure and Bullets"**

Madame Francine dealt the final round of upcards in the game of five-card stud. Only two players remained. "Jack of clubs, an ambitious card that makes your hand very blue, Mr. Fournier. Ten of diamonds, the card of wealth for you, Yancy. Your pair of sixes still stands."

Yancy studied his opponent across the table. With four clubs on display, there was a strong possibility Jean Fournier possessed a flush, but the nervous tic at the corner of his eye said otherwise. Yancy added a greenback to the pot. "One hundred."

"Not as audacious as usual, are you, Monsieur Derringer? I'll raise two hundred."

"I'll call."

Fournier flipped his hole card to reveal a jack of hearts. "A pair of knaves."

"Three of a kind," Yancy said, turning over the third six.

"The devil's hand," Francine remarked wryly, "How appropriate."

"That's not the first time I've been compared to a devil today," Yancy quipped as he collected his winnings. "Used to find it flattering, now I'm not so sure."

Fournier chuckled and congratulated his opponent while lamenting his foolishness to bluff with such a weak hand. He departed the table with a nod to Francine, opting to try his luck with blackjack next. Yancy offered his arm to the beautiful blonde and escorted her to the bar for a drink.

He surveyed the parlor while the bartender popped the cork. The sweet sounds of shuffling cards and clinking coins mixed with the Mozart performed by a pianist occupying the far corner. A few customers tested fate with roulette and others with the wheel of fortune, the hostesses happily collecting on behalf of the house.

"I heard about Jody. How is he holding up?"

Yancy glanced over the rim of the champagne glass. "And here I thought you didn't care."

"I may not like him fleecing my customers outside my club, but Jody is no killer. He's also your friend and he's come through for you when it counts." Francine pressed her lips together in a sly smile. "Which begs the question, why is he still in the calaboose? Running out of ways to stage a jailbreak?"

"I prefer the more permanent way of freedom. In this case, proving him innocent."

"Since you're here instead of roughing up the underworld, it only means one thing. How can I help?"

Yancy grinned. Francine knew him well—maybe too well—and got right to the point. It was one of the traits admired the most about her. "Is Dan Hollingsworth still a member of your club?"

"No, he let his membership lapse a little more than a year ago. He has come in a couple of times as a guest of Rutherford Devereaux. You think he had something to do with the murder?"

"Possibly. Let's just say when the _Sultana_ was mortgaged, I wasn't best friends with my banker."

"Care to explain?"

"It's not important." Yancy set his glass on the counter. "Dan told me he rarely gets the chance to gamble anymore. From what I remember, he had an itch for cards even a royal flush couldn't scratch. Any idea what changed?"

"You won't want to hear this," Francine smirked, "Marriage. During the final months of the war, he married a virtuous widow. Mrs. Lydia Hollingsworth does not approve of gambling. It's a mortal sin."

"Explains the cold shoulder." At her questioning glance, he clarified, "The lady and I have met."

"From that dejected tone in your voice, I gather you finally encountered a living, breathing female who is immune to your rakish charms."

"Hard to believe, isn't it?"

Francine laughed. "They were well-to-do after the war ended, one of the wealthier families in New Orleans. She probably tolerated his itch for cards since he could afford to lose. Rumors say they're having financial troubles now, thus the halt to his entertainment."

"That's odd, Dan and Rutherford both had money, then didn't. Dan said they served together. Do you know where they were stationed?"

"In Mobile, that's where he met Lydia. She hails from the Mobile Matthews."

"Matthews?" Yancy repeated. "Any relation to Clayton Matthews?"

"She's his aunt. Mr. Matthews shares her distaste for gambling, drinking and all those other activities that flow through your veins." Francine leaned forward with her arms folded on the counter. "We've had a few heated encounters over the years. People like the Matthews have no tolerance for men of your breed. Since my business thrives on the Yancy Derringers of the world, they don't have much tolerance for me, either."

"Charming family," Yancy remarked dryly, emptying his glass. He leaned against the bar on one elbow. "When I headed west to make my fortune, Pahoo and I ran into an old prospector in the Dakotas who spent the better part of '66 camped along the Gulf Coast looking for gold washed ashore. He called it the Doña Nettie treasure."

"Destined for Mobile, Alabama. I've heard of it, but it doesn't exist—not anymore. Union ironclads sank it." Francine raised an incredulous eyebrow. "I recognize that expression, Yancy. Don't tell me you think Dan Hollingsworth and Rutherford Devereaux found the treasure."

"Who said they lost it?" Yancy kissed her on the cheek. "See you later, Francine."

"Where are you going?"

"To send a telegram." Pahoo followed as he collected his belongings from Jeremiah at the entrance and left a puzzled Francine behind.

Gas burning lamps lined the streets, casting long shadows as they strolled to their destination. One shadow in particular stayed too close for comfort. Pahoo informed Yancy that a lanky, clean-shaven fellow in a dusty bowler hat was on their trail. He had been since they left the club. Yancy signed that he, too, noticed their new friend. Curious what their pursuer had planned, the two friends continued walking at a leisurely pace, alert for an ambush.

When Pahoo spotted a second man up ahead on a balcony drawing a pistol, they ducked into an alley. A loud bang fractured the night air, the bullet ricocheting off the brick wall inches from Yancy's head. Screams sounded and bystanders on the street fled for safety. Pahoo fired his scattergun, hitting the shooter who bounced off the wall before falling over the railing and landing on the sidewalk with a thud.

The tail hot on their heels rounded the corner, revolver in hand. Yancy pulled the derringer from his sleeve and took aim. He unloaded two barrels and the man dropped to the ground face first clutching his stomach.

While Pahoo collected the firearm from his victim, Yancy rolled his over, hoping to get answers. Ray Miller struggled to gasp for breath and died without muttering a word. Pahoo returned and Yancy stood, a small sigh escaping his lips.

"Someone hired them to kills us. Too bad they can't tell us who."

* * *

John Colton paced the length of his office, hands clasped behind his back. "Is it too much to ask for you to go one evening without shooting up the streets of New Orleans?"

"They shot at Pahoo and me first."

"That is exactly what concerns me." Colton halted and spun on his heels. "Ray Miller and Mike Harris were two notorious members of the Live Oaks gang. Do you care to explain why they wanted you dead?"

"Ray and Mike each had five hundred dollars in their wallets, more money than either of them had ever seen in their lifetime. The better question to ask, Mr. Colton, is who hired them."

"I stand corrected, Mr. Derringer. Do you want to explain who wants you dead and why? I won't even inquire why you're on a first name basis with your failed assassins."

Yancy sat on the edge of Colton's desk, his hands hugging the curved handle of his cane. He knew the why, but he was not as certain about the who. Four people were aware he set out to clear Jody's name. Lorelei Devereaux and Clayton Matthews heard it directly from his mouth. Considering Matthews' infuriated state when he bid them goodbye, it was safe to presume he spouted off to his Uncle Dan and Aunt Lydia.

He crossed Lorelei off the list of suspects. He knew her too well. She wouldn't murder her father or deliberately get involved in a scheme to eliminate Rutherford. That left three suspects, all of whom had the resources to hire fast—but not fast enough—guns.

"Well?" Colton prodded.

"Apparently, they didn't approve of me sending a telegram."

"Yancy!" Colton inhaled a deep breath before raising his hand so his thumb and index finger were less than an inch apart. "I am this close to throwing you back in the calaboose. Cut the nonsense."

"Rutherford Devereaux's killer knows I'm closing in."

"What have you learned so far?"

"Nothing that will clear Jody just yet." Yancy's gaze traveled to Captain Fry standing quietly beside Pahoo. Tossing his cane to his Pawnee friend, he rounded the desk, settled in the chair and reached for the fountain pen. Colton watched over his shoulder as he wrote a list. "Captain, the _Heloise Star_ sails at midnight. Would you go to Baton Rouge, wake the manager of the National Bank if needed, and seize these records?"

Fry looked over the list. "This falls under my jurisdiction. Mr. Administrator?"

Colton nodded his approval and Fry departed.

Yancy nestled in the chair and grinned. "Are you familiar with the treasure of Doña Nettie?"

"Winning a silver mine in a poker game isn't enough for you?" Colton sat on the edge of the desk, unfazed by the change in topic. "Now you're hunting treasure, too?"

"A man can never have too much money when Lady Luck frowns upon him, Mr. Colton, and the notion of hidden treasure has intrigued me since I was a little boy. Humor me."

One corner of the administrator's mouth curled upward in amusement. "A lot of money went missing during the war on both sides. The War Department and the Secret Service have worked on tracking some of it down, but it hasn't proved easy. Many of the so-called Confederate treasures are nothing more than myths created to boost morale when the tide turned against the South."

"You didn't answer my question, Mr. Colton."

"Fine, I'll play along. Some twenty odd years ago, a Southern belle married a wealthy Mexican landowner. In the spring of '65, she hired a crew to run a treasure of gold, silver and gemstones through the blockade to a contact near Mobile, Alabama. Worth upwards of half a million American dollars, it never made it." Colton crossed his arms over his chest. "Yes, I've heard of it."

"Sunk by a Union ironclad."

"Sunk, confiscated or stolen depending on which version of the story you listen to. A friend of mine worked the case a couple of years ago. According to records, the Union Navy engaged in a few skirmishes in the Gulf during those months, all of which ended in the enemy surrendering. Serious blockade-runners concentrated on the Carolinas by that time. There are no records of the army confiscating large sums of money and no Union officers in the vicinity came into sudden wealth."

"A couple of Confederate officers did." Before Colton could question the remark, Yancy pressed on. "Did your friend ever inquire with Miss Nettie?"

"Miss Nettie? I take it you know her."

"Before she became Señora Cristóbal de la Cruz, she was Miss Nettie Patterson. Our families go way back. I attended her wedding as a boy. The bride and groom sure could throw a party."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Colton shook his head. "Miss Nettie claimed no knowledge."

"Smart lady. I'd do the same."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"The war was over. The South lost. Jefferson Davis was arrested and imprisoned. He along with General Lee and other high-ranking officers were indicted on charges of treason. Until President Johnson issued a blanket pardon earlier this year, questions remained as to their fates. Miss Nettie resides in a foreign country, but she still has family in the States. She probably feared her loved ones paying the price for her patriotism."

"A valid point, Yancy. So how does this treasure—if it does exist—figure into the murder?"

"Motive, Mr. Colton." Yancy sprung to his feet, moved to the small table on the side of the room and poured a drink. "Did you locate the tiepin and ring?"

"No. I've kept my men on it and Captain Fry had a few ideas, but nothing panned out. I can't spare the manpower for much longer."

"You won't have to. That attempted assassination proves I'm making the killer nervous. It's now a matter of knowing when to call the bet and show my cards." Yancy set his glass on the tray next to the crystal decanter and walked to the door. "I just need to ensure I have an ace in the hole."

Colton stood, looking at him agape. "Where are you going?"

Yancy winked. "To do what I've been trying to all night—send a telegram."

* * *

With the message successfully sent, Yancy and Pahoo headed for the _Sultana_. She was moored at the dock in the city to undergo routine maintenance. It gave Yancy a quiet place to ponder the players in the dangerous game in which Jody found himself an unwitting pawn.

Nearing the gangplank, Pahoo stopped him and pointed to the upper deck. A faint light streamed through the windows of his cabin on the otherwise dark riverboat. They exchanged brief signals as they prepared their weapons and boarded the vessel. The gambler smiled when he peered through a gap in the curtains and spied Obadiah puttering around, straightening up the disheveled room.

"Why, it's early for you, Marse Yancy." The elderly black valet with the friendly face and snow above his ears greeted them with a glimmer in his warm, brown eyes. "Had a bad night at the club?"

"The night is treating me pretty good, Obadiah," Yancy replied with a soft laugh. "Didn't even get my clothes dirty while dodging bullets."

"You sure do have a way of finding trouble, or trouble has a way of finding you. I was hoping to get a chance to fix up the cabin before you got back. That lady pirate you let use it can wreck it as well as you."

"She promised no bullet holes." Yancy tossed his hat and cane aside. "What brought you into the city, besides Coco LaSalle and her boys?"

"I delivered a case of wine to the calaboose earlier. Your friend, the turnkey, sends his regards. He's hoping to see you again soon. Saw Mr. Barker while I was there. Made sure to send over a good meal."

"Thank you, Obadiah." Yancy pulled a chair out from the table, turned it around and straddled it, his arms folded over the back. He rested his chin on top. "Do you know any of the house servants who work for Dan Hollingsworth?"

"Afraid not, Marse Yancy. Why do you ask?"

He explained the situation. "I'd like to find out what type of alibi Dan has."

"I think I can help you there, Marse Yancy. My sister's nephew takes care of the stables at the Hollingsworth plantation. The boy has a sixth sense when it comes to animals. If I didn't know better, I'd say he speaks horse. Leroy will know when Mr. Hollingsworth was home and when he wasn't."

"Is this nephew the friendly type?"

"Just tell him I sent you. He lives in a little house beyond the stables."

Yancy grabbed his hat and patted the older man on the shoulder. "Thank you, Obadiah."

A short time later, with only the moon's pale light to guide them, Pahoo and Yancy arrived at the boundary of the Hollingsworth plantation on horseback. Large oak trees draped in Spanish moss lined the road to the main residence. Securing the reins to a low branch, they proceeded on foot.

No lights emanated from the stately mansion's oversized windows, giving the impression the occupants were sound asleep—else no one was home. They made their way along the lush, manicured lawns to the stables.

The scent of horseflesh and hay tickled Yancy's nose when he pushed open one of the double doors. He discovered the carriage Dan and Lydia drove to Tulip Hall stowed to the right. Snorts from the left drew his attention. He lit the lamp on the small table just inside the door for a better look.

The two mares hitched to it earlier were now in the stalls to the left, along with two other horses. Saddles and blankets lay neatly arranged on shelves along the far wall. Near as Yancy could tell, Dan and Lydia were indeed home.

Pahoo joined him after surveying the surrounding area, indicating a small house to the north beyond a clump of trees. A large paddock lay off to their right. Yancy extinguished the flame and secured the door. They kept close to the fence as they approached the house.

From the corner of his vision, Yancy glimpsed a shadow barreling at him from behind the tree. He tried to sidestep it, but it knocked him hard to the ground with tenacity of a charging bull. Tussling in the dirt, he finally got the upper hand, catching his attacker's legs with his own and pinning his arms to the ground.

Pahoo pressed a knife to the man's throat.

Yancy finally got a good look at his assailant. He was a young black man in his early twenties at most, with close-cropped hair, bright eyes and a broad nose. His teeth gritted together as he continued to struggle against his captor, despite the threat of the knife. Lean muscles filled out the slender frame.

Yancy nodded his head and Pahoo returned the blade to its sheath. "Are you Leroy?"

"Who's asking?"

"I'm a friend of Obadiah Williams."

The boy went slack under Yancy's iron grip. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?"

"You didn't give me much chance." Yancy let go of Leroy's arms and stood, brushing the dirt from his clothes. He offered a hand to the boy who accepted and hauled him to his feet.

"Saw you sneaking around from the other side of the paddock." Leroy peered over his shoulder at Pahoo with a frown. "Didn't see him, though. Judging by them fancy threads, you must be Yancy Derringer and he's Wolf Who Stands in Water. Uncle Obie's told me about y'all."

"Uncle Obie?" Yancy laughed. "Oh, I can't wait to run that past him." He lifted himself onto the top beam of the wood fence. "Your Uncle Obie said you might be able to help me. I'll make it worth your while." He pulled a coin from his vest pocket and tossed it to Leroy who deftly caught it, gave it a cursory glance and tossed it back.

"Any friend of Uncle Obie's is a friend of mine. And I don't take money from friends."

Yancy grinned. He was starting to like the boy, though he would have to make sure to keep him away from Jody's nimble fingers. The pickpocket shared a different philosophy when it came to money and friends.

"What can I do for you?"

"On the night of the opera, what time did Mr. and Mrs. Hollingsworth return home?"

"Oh, it was about a quarter to a half past eleven. They were fighting like cats and dogs over money again. Been doing that a lot lately. Old Mr. Hollingsworth must've gotten tired of the henpecking because he marched into the stable, saddled a horse and rode off."

This little tidbit piqued Yancy's curiosity. "Any idea where he went?"

Leroy hopped up on the fence next to him. "To the Blackjack Club. The missus asked me to follow and keep an eye on him. Think she was afraid he was going to find himself trouble."

"Did she ever ask you to keep an eye on him before?"

"Nope, she didn't even let me finish taking care of the horses and carriage. Said she'd do it herself and I ain't about to get on the missus's bad side." At Yancy's bewildered expression, Leroy laughed. "Her family used to raise standardbreds for harness racing before the war. She can hitch 'em up better than any woman I've ever seen—and better than many a man, too."

"And she did take care of the horses and carriage?"

"They were all in place when the mister and I got back, though the mares were restless and alert. Figured they'd be resting at that hour. It was as if they were still worked up from a ride."

Yancy grinned. Dan had the perfect alibi. Leroy trailing behind put to rest any doubts concerning what time he arrived at the Blackjack Club, but it left Lydia without one. After all, proper Southern ladies didn't go around committing cold-blooded murder. "Do you know where they went today?"

"They ate breakfast in the city this morning—the Charter House, I think—something they rarely do together. Too many pickpockets and lowlifes loitering the streets, or so she harps. Then I heard them talking about Miss Devereaux when they returned. Something sure had the missus fit to be tied, kept saying he was trouble." Leroy rubbed the nape of his neck. "She got real quiet when I approached."

Pahoo pointed to Yancy, who nodded with a smile. "Did those sharp ears pick up anything else?"

Leroy smirked. "Mr. Hollingsworth left for an hour or so on business early this evening. The missus was waiting for him on the bench over there." He pointed to far end of the paddock. "She was a might happy when he said something about it all being taken care of. Best I can tell, it has to do with their luncheon tomorrow afternoon."

"Thank you, Leroy." Yancy jumped down from the fence and offered his hand. The kid shook it firmly. "You've been a great help."

When they returned to their horses, Pahoo posed a question and Yancy laughed. "Yes, we're going to crash a party tomorrow, with Jody as the guest of honor."


	4. Chapter 4

**Pick a Pocket for a Frame-Up**

**Chapter 4  
"Back to the Calaboose"**

Yancy folded the telegram and tucked it safely inside his jacket. Pahoo at his side, he proceeded to the Charter House for a late breakfast with an extra bounce in his step. Much to his dismay, a uniformed lieutenant approached the outdoor table before the waiter.

"The administrator requests to see you at once, Mr. Derringer."

"Please inform him I'll be there after I eat."

"He insisted at once, sir."

Yancy shrugged and followed the officer to the cabildo. While the lieutenant exchanged a few words with Colton, he drew closer to an empty tray atop the small table. "At least the esteemed Administrator of New Orleans finds time to savor a few morsels while a humble riverboat owner wastes away."

"Very funny, Yancy," Colton said once the officer departed.

Yancy pointed to the door as Pahoo closed it. "He's new."

"Lieutenant Edgerton will be acquainted with your colorful antics soon enough." Colton handed him a sheet of paper. "Your hunch was right, Yancy. Captain Fry telegraphed me an hour ago. Rutherford Devereaux was up to his neck in debt. He began taking out loans approximately six months ago. The bank president confirms signing off on two, but insists his signatures on the others are forgeries. Considering he was out of town when one was approved, he's probably telling the truth."

"Probably," Yancy agreed.

"There is no indication Devereaux repaid a single cent and the ledgers are in disarray. It appears someone funneled money from other accounts to his to cover the non-payments. Captain Fry and two of his best men are poring over them with a fine-tooth comb, but it's going to take some time. He's sent for more agents to inventory the holdings in the vault."

Yancy let the paper flutter to the desk without saying a word.

Colton placed his hands on his hips. "This isn't a small-scale case of embezzlement. We're looking at hundreds of thousands of dollars in a matter of months. That this level of fraud went undetected is mindboggling. What the devil is going on? And how does this connect to the treasure?"

"I can explain better if you join me at the calaboose."

"The calaboose?"

"Jody's sticky fingers, remember?"

"Very well," Colton conceded. With a small smile, he added, "Lead the way, Mr. Derringer."

When the trio arrived, the turnkey was finishing the final remnants of an early lunch, if the discarded shrimp tails were any indication. "Even he gets to eat," Yancy quipped, earning a glare from Colton.

"Ah, Yancy, that was quick, even for you," friend jailer said, rising to greet his favorite jailbird with a broad smile. "Glad to have you and Pahoo back." He buttoned his jacket and smoothed his hair while fetching the keys.

Colton rolled his eyes. "Mr. Derringer is not under arrest. We are here to confer with Mr. Barker."

"Oh," sounded the disappointed reply.

Friend jailer opened the iron door and motioned his guests inside the cell area. Jody jumped up from the bunk where he lay staring at the ceiling and hurried to the bars. "Hi, Yancy, am I glad to see you. Are you going to spring me from this—" The words died on his lips when he saw the federal administrator and turnkey entering ahead of Pahoo.

Yancy laughed softly. "Jody, tell me about the pockets you picked yesterday morning."

"Aw, I wouldn't pick any pockets, Yancy."

"Jody," Yancy sighed, not having time for games, "thirty days in the calaboose for pilfering wallets is far preferable to getting your neck permanently stretched for murder."

"Well, when you put it that way…" Jody rubbed his throat, the color draining from his face. He snuck a cautious glance toward Colton before continuing, "There was a pudgy little fellow. Ornery, too. Gave me a dirty sneer and acted as if he owned the street. Then there was a younger fellow, a Frenchman, dressed real fancy like you. I remember because he called me monsieur."

"Anyone else?"

"Yeah, there was this older couple, husband and wife. He seemed decent enough, but she had all the charm of a rat snake, if you get my drift. Looked like she'd bite your head off at the first opportunity."

Yancy chuckled. That was Lydia Hollingsworth all right. He hung the curved handle of his cane on his forearm while he turned to the others. "Mr. Colton, Jody doesn't realize it, but he just described Rutherford Devereaux's murderer. I need him free from the calaboose."

"Y–You mean I really picked the pocket of a killer?" Jody asked, shivering at the implication.

Yancy glared at him over his shoulder, admonishing him to keep quiet. "Send one of Captain Fry's men along with a detachment of soldiers if necessary, but it's imperative Jody come with me."

Colton shook his head. "Armed guard or no, I cannot authorize the release of the sole suspect in a murder investigation to appease a civilian." He placed his hands on his hips. "Since you're the only one who seems to know what's going on—and who this perpetrator is—explain it to me and I'll have him brought here where Mr. Barker can make the identification."

"The word of a sneak thief won't hold up in court. Besides, a good poker player never reveals his hand prematurely." Yancy signed to Pahoo as he spoke.

Colton's eyes narrowed. "What was that exchange all about?"

"I was just alerting Pahoo to prepare for a jailbreak." Yancy drew the derringer from his sleeve in the same instant Pahoo bared his scattergun. "The keys, please, friend jailer."

Looking back and forth between the two weapons, the master of the damp walls gulped, passed the key ring forward and raised his hands. Yancy slipped it over his wrist for safekeeping and motioned to his usual quarters. "Into the cell." Friend jailer obliged without a peep.

Colton blinked hard, emerging from his momentary daze, and advanced a step. "Yancy, what the devil are you doing? Have you lost your mind?"

"I advise against any sudden movements, Mr. Administrator."

"You wouldn't dare shoot me."

"I might not, but I can't say the same about Pahoo." On cue, the Pawnee Indian pressed the muzzle of the scattergun to Colton's chest. The administrator's face flushed redder than his hair. "Now, if you would be so kind as to hand over the pistol you keep in your vest, Mr. Colton."

"Yancy, you've gone too far this time!" Pahoo nudged him in the ribs. He reluctantly surrendered his weapon. It took another nudge from Pahoo's scattergun to herd him in the cell.

"Thank you, gentlemen." Yancy offered a polite bow as he returned his derringer to his sleeve and locked the bars. He then gave the confiscated firearm to Pahoo and moved to free Jody.

The pickpocket peered at the prisoners across from him. "This ain't such a great idea, Yance."

Yancy grabbed him by the arm and hauled him out.

"Mr. Administrator," Jody protested, "I want it on record I was not a willing participant."

Yancy pressed the tip of his cane into Jody's back. "Start walking."

Colton grabbed the bars, his voice following them out. "Yancy! Yancy! Derringer, get back here!"

The gambler stuck his head back in. "I'll leave your pistol on the desk." He flashed a wry smile brimming with mirth. "We'll be at the Hollingsworth plantation when you get out."

"Derringer!"

* * *

Yancy snapped the lid of his pocket watch shut. A light breeze rustled the leaves of the pecan trees shading Hollingsworth Manor from the heat of the afternoon sun. Voices and laughter rang out from the open French doors of the parlor overlooking the rear garden.

"I don't get it." Jody peered around. "What are we waiting for?"

"We don't want Mr. Colton to miss the festivities."

"Yancy, you locked the federal administrator behind bars. He's going to toss us all in the calaboose the first chance he gets. Probably throw the key away, too."

"Stop worrying." Yancy motioned for them to follow. He emerged from behind the tree trunks and snuck toward the side of the house. Peering around the corner, he waited for Leroy to drive the last carriage to the stables. He didn't want Obadiah's nephew joining them in their troublemaking endeavor.

Their bodies pressed against the red brick wall until the coast cleared, Jody's wandering fingers found their way to Yancy's lapels where they plucked some invisible specks of lint from the white fabric. Pahoo unsheathed his knife and held it to the pickpocket's throat. "Jody, it's not wise to steal from friends." Yancy signaled for Pahoo to withdraw the blade.

"Sorry, Yance, old habit."

Using sign language, Yancy asked Pahoo to circle around to the rear of the house.

Jody pointed in the direction the Pawnee disappeared. "Where's he going?"

"Pahoo is quite the admirer of camellias."

Yancy dug the tip of his cane in the grumbling man's back and nudged him forward. They climbed the steps to the front door. A servant answered and showed them to the parlor where the dozen or so guests were in the midst of a lavish meal. Yancy recognized many of the attendees. Most were older couples from the former gentry of antebellum New Orleans; they preferred to live in the glory of the past. He often played cards with the husbands at Francine's club.

"Recognize anyone?" Yancy whispered.

"Yeah, them," Jody said, pointing to the hosts.

Dan and Lydia sat at opposite ends of a long table. Clayton Matthews occupied the chair to his aunt's right, the open doors behind him providing a stunning view of the garden. Lorelei wasn't present. When the servant announced the new arrivals, Dan bolted to his feet, his eyes landing on Jody. Swallowing hard, he exchanged a darting glance with his wife.

Yancy removed his hat and adopted a polite smile. "Surprised to see me, Dan?"

"Yes, but a pleasant surprise, Yancy, I assure you. I'm sorry Lydia and I didn't extend an invitation yesterday, but I doubted an afternoon with us older folk would interest a man of your pursuits."

"I was referring more to the fact a thousand dollars doesn't buy what it used to. Mr. Miller and Mr. Harris weren't as talented with a pistol as they claimed." Dan paled at the insinuation, his eyes still flitting between Jody and his wife, furnishing Yancy all the evidence he needed. "No wonder you gave up cards, Dan. Your expression gives your hand away."

Matthews slammed his fist on the table, rattling the dishes, and stood. "Don't you have a shred of decorum, Derringer? First, you upset Lorelei and now you find it necessary to disturb a private social function."

"Simmer down, Mr. Matthews. You might find this afternoon most enlightening. Don't you find it the least bit strange your aunt and uncle are throwing a gay party after the untimely death of their dear friend and the man who was to be your future father-in-law?"

Lydia placed her napkin on the table and raised her chin. "For your information, Mr. Derringer, this luncheon was planned weeks ago. It would be impolite to cancel at the last moment. Everyone here counted Rutherford as a close friend. This gathering permits us an opportunity to mourn his passing."

Yancy chuckled. "A beautiful speech, Mrs. Hollingsworth. I noticed you haven't inquired about my friend, Mr. Barker. I believe you and your husband had a brief encounter with him yesterday morning."

"Barker?" Matthews repeated, glaring daggers at the pickpocket. "You've sunk to new lows, Derringer. Get out before I throw you out!"

A commotion outside reached their ears. Yancy smiled. "I must decline. We have company."

John Colton entered the parlor with six soldiers led by Lieutenant Edgerton. Some of the other men at the table scrambled to their feet. Colton surveyed the room. "Mr. Derringer, this had better be good."

Jody glanced between his friend and the administrator, afraid to move.

"It is, Mr. Colton, it is." Yancy kept his gaze trained on Lydia. When the soldiers entered, she tightened her grip on the reticule at her wrist. While not the typical reaction of a woman in the presence of the law, he found it even more peculiar that she felt the need to keep it with her inside her own home. "You are about to hear a story of exotic treasure, friendship and blackmail that ended in murder."

"Hey, this is kind of exciting," Jody interjected. A glower from Colton quieted him.

"In the final months of the war," Yancy began, "the outlook didn't bode well for the South. The Confederates were running low on basic supplies and money. President Jefferson's delegates appealed to Señora Nettie de la Cruz, a patriotic Southern belle who lived in Mexico with her husband. She rounded up a small fortune for the cause and hired the fastest ship in the Gulf to break the blockade. They succeeded."

Jody's eyes grew wide. "The Doña Nettie treasure is real?"

"Very real, Jody," Yancy replied. "The captain of the _Neptuno_ confirmed delivery to Lieutenant Colonel Hollingsworth and Major Devereaux on April 15th, three days after the City of Mobile surrendered to the Union and six days after General Lee surrendered at the Appomattox Courthouse."

"This is a fanciful story, Yancy, but that's all it is—a story," Dan said, asserting innocence. He stared at Colton. "Are you going to listen to this drivel?"

"Yes, I am. Please continue, Mr. Derringer."

"The war was over, you and Rutherford both realized it. You also had a fortune in your grasp. It was only a matter of time until the Union confiscated it from your superiors, so you decided to keep it for yourselves. You used that money to rebuild your homes and businesses."

"My husband is correct, Mr. Derringer." Lydia stood, looking every bit like a rat snake poised to bite. "This is nothing more than a fanciful child's fairytale, concocted by a gambler who thrives on debauchery. There isn't a shred of proof to backup your baseless accusations."

"Not according to Miss Nettie." Yancy pulled the telegram from his pocket. "Six months after the war ended, she wrote to you, Dan, requesting the money be used to help those who needed it most. You responded that Union troops confiscated the treasure, advising her to deny all knowledge of it to protect her family. You probably reported it sunk by the ironclads to cover your activities. It's why there are so many rumors as to its fate."

"Lydia," Dan began, his voice rising in pitch.

"Oh, shush, Daniel," she chided.

Jody nodded. "I always heard it was sunk."

Yancy handed the telegram to the administrator. "The simple version is here, Mr. Colton. Miss Nettie will write you in detail and forward the correspondence she had with Dan. She will also travel to New Orleans if the court requires her testimony."

"Preposterous," Lydia snapped. "Even if my husband somehow came into contact with this silly treasure, it took place in the Confederate States of America. Union law has no authority over it."

"You're mistaken, Mrs. Hollingsworth," Colton replied after perusing the message. "Mobile and the rest of Southern Alabama surrendered, placing the region firmly under Union authority on the dates Mr. Derringer quoted. The laws of the United States of America apply and the statue of limitations on felony theft stands."

Clay Matthews broke his silence. "Is this true, Uncle Dan?"

"Of course not, it's absurd," Dan cried, the beads of sweat on his forehead contradicting his words. The husbands at the table helped their wives from their chairs and scurried toward the walls, away from their hosts, watching the scene in rapt attention.

"It doesn't end there, Mr. Colton." Yancy stepped forward, his senses on full alert. He knew Dan Hollingsworth well enough to appreciate he wouldn't go down without a fight. "Dan and Rutherford split the treasure. All seemed well, but Rutherford was no longer the same man. Lorelei said it best. The war changed her father; he lived in the moment. He burned through his share of the money restoring Tulip Hall to her former glory and purchasing the finest riverboats to compensate for losing the _Sultana_ all those years ago."

"Mr. Devereaux blackmailed Mr. Hollingsworth," Colton concluded.

"Exactly. Dan held a higher rank. Rutherford could state he was ordered to keep quiet. Dan had no choice but to pay up until he ran out of money, too. That's when he used his position on the board of directors at the Baton Rouge bank to embezzle. When he feared he couldn't hide his wrongdoing anymore, he resorted to murder."

"You're wrong, Yancy." Dan's posture straightened in triumph. "I was at the Blackjack Club when Rutherford was murdered. At least a dozen witnesses can vouch for me."

Yancy nodded before adding, "But not your wife."

Lydia let out a loud harrumph. "I have had just about enough of this… this madness. Unless you can produce evidence, I want you all out of my home. My lawyers will sue you for slander."

"You have the proof in your hand, Mrs. Hollingsworth," Yancy replied.

Clay looked back and forth between them. "What are you talking about, Derringer?"

"After returning from the opera house, your aunt, skilled in harnessing horses, had her stable groom follow her husband to ensure the perfect alibi. She then drove the carriage to Tulip Hall. She shot Rutherford, snatched a few of his belongings to make it appear like a robbery and rode off into the night. There was no risk of the two elderly servants catching sight of her. She tended to the horses and carriage in the stable so no one would be the wiser."

"Conjecture, Mr. Derringer, that's all you have," she retorted. "I reiterate, get out of my home."

"You were clever, Mrs. Hollingsworth, but not clever enough." Yancy grinned. "Murderers rarely are or they wouldn't have resorted to killing in the first place."

"Oh, spare me the moral lecture," Lydia quipped.

"Your first mistake was failing to take Rutherford's pocket watch. You knew it was engraved with his name, so it would be difficult to dispose of without arousing suspicion. The next phase of your plan worked a little too well. You and Dan had breakfast in the city, making sure to bump into a pickpocket who would pinch Rutherford's wallet. Mr. Barker played right into your hands."

"I did?" Jody asked.

"I'm afraid they used you as a chump, Jody," Yancy replied. He returned his focus to Lydia. "Rutherford's prized coin surfacing reinforced the robbery gone wrong angle. Only the plan worked a little too well. While dining at the Charter House, you heard the commotion as the Secret Service hauled Mr. Barker away. You couldn't risk unloading the ring or tiepin with the alleged murderer in custody."

Jody came to stand beside Yancy. "So where are they?"

"That brings me to mistake number two." He played the odds. "If Mrs. Hollingsworth possessed any common sense, she would have tossed the only evidence tying her to the murder into the muddy Mississippi. But she didn't. She couldn't leave them in her room on the off chance a servant might stumble across them. So she carries them in her reticule."

"Aunt Lydia, tell me this isn't true." Clay hesitated. "Did you kill Lorelei's father?"

"Oh shush, Clayton," Lydia admonished, "how can you believe a word he says?"

"Well I do," Colton said. "Please empty the contents of your reticule on the table, Mrs. Hollingsworth."

Lydia didn't bat an eyelash. "I am protected from unlawful search and seizure by the Fourth Amendment on that little document called the Constitution. Do you have a warrant, Mr. Colton?"

"No, but I'll issue one immediately," the administrator replied. "Until then, my men will not let it—or you—out of their sight."

"That won't be necessary. Dump the contents now, Aunt Lydia." When she refused to acknowledge him, Clay grabbed for the purse. She yelped, pushed him back and huffed.

"Fine, we'll put an end to this." Lydia drew the strings apart and promptly extracted a double-barrel derringer pistol. "Get back, Clayton. All of you drop your firearms or Mr. Derringer will die by his own weapon."

"Common mistake," Yancy quipped, "No relation."

Dan ran to the china cabinet and produced a revolver from the drawer.

Lieutenant Edgerton instructed his soldiers to lay down their rifles. At Lydia's prodding, Colton relinquished his pistol for the second time in a day. Setting it on the floor, he kicked it forward. She glared at Barker. "He"—Jody gulped and pointed at the administrator—"took it when he arrested me."

Satisfied, she smiled at Yancy. "You next. No tricks, Mr. Derringer, or I'll put a bullet in that handsome face."

Yancy nodded, hung his hat on his right hand and tossed the pistol he kept in his vest on the floor with his left. His fingers traced along the handle of the hidden Sharps as he spotted the shadow by the French doors. Pahoo snuck in with his scattergun in hand. "Give yourself up. You can't escape."

Lydia chuckled. "Says who?"

"Pahoo-Ka-Ta-Wah. His 16-gauge, double-barrel scattergun is leveled at your head." At her confusion, he added, "You might remember my friend from yesterday. Big fellow, Pawnee Indian. He doesn't like it when people point guns at me."

Dan slowly glanced over his shoulder and paled. "Lydia, he's telling the truth."

"Tell your savage to put the shotgun down," she ordered. "I will kill you, Mr. Derringer."

Yancy readied his Sharps when Clay suddenly leaped forward, going for his aunt's pistol. As they fought for the weapon, Dan pivoted. Pahoo unloaded a barrel of buckshot, sending the man flying into the wall. Dan slumped to the ground dead.

The luncheon guests shrieked, cowering near walls and behind furniture.

A second shot resounded. Clay staggered backwards, clutching his side. Lydia gaped at her nephew for a second before spinning on Yancy. He fired, knocking the pistol from her grasp. She sank to the ground clutching her wounded hand. Pahoo confiscated her weapon as Yancy knelt beside Clay.

Colton surveyed the bloody scene. "Lieutenant, escort Mrs. Hollingsworth to the calaboose and send for a doctor at once. Ladies and gentlemen, please move into the other room. My men will take statements from all of you."

Yancy ripped Clay's vest open and peeled the man's shirt away from his skin, revealing a bloody gash along the rib cage. "It looks like the bullet cut deep, but didn't penetrate. It's going to hurt, but you should be fine in a few days, Mr. Matthews." He pulled a handkerchief from his jacket and pressed it to the wound.

"I–I misjudged you, Mr. Derringer." Clay glanced up, gritting his teeth in pain. "It seems I owe you and your Indian friend an apology."

"Pahoo and I accept."

"How can I ever thank you?"

"Make sure Lorelei is happy."

"Lorelei?" Clay groaned. "She'll never want to speak to me once she learns what they did."

"You don't know the Devereaux women very well. They have a stubborn streak that rivals a mule. If she's got it in her head she loves you, she'll recognize you had nothing to do with her father's death."

Two soldiers approached to help assist Clay to the couch in the adjacent room. Yancy stepped aside. "A tip, Mr. Matthews, don't recover too quickly." At the confused look, he winked. "Women love to nurse their men back to health."

He joined Pahoo and Colton at the dining table where the administrator examined the contents of Lydia's reticule. "One ring and one jeweled tiepin. You were right, Yancy. Thank you."

"Anything to clear a friend, Mr. Colton."

Colton motioned to the soldier covering Dan Hollingsworth's body with a blanket. "Private, Mr. Derringer and his Indian friend are under arrest. Escort them to the calaboose."

Yancy glanced at the administrator in surprise. "May I inquire as to the charges?"

"There is a little matter of six hours you owe me on your previous sentence, in addition to the jail break you and Pahoo instigated this afternoon."

Yancy nodded in agreement with the charges. "We'll go peacefully."

Before the soldier could lead them away, Colton pointed to the French doors. "Stop that man!" Jody froze, raising his hands. "Mr. Barker is under arrest, too."

"I didn't have anything to do with the jail break, Mr. Administrator," Jody argued. "Yancy would have hurt me if I didn't go along. You heard him threatening me."

"The charge is picking pockets." Colton held out his hand, palm up.

Jody's cheeks flushed pink. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a bundle of wallets. Shuffling through them, he handed the brown leather billfold to Colton.

The private escorting Yancy and Pahoo cried, "Hey, that's mine!" He grabbed his wallet, counting the money inside, as did the other uniforms still in the parlor.

Yancy laughed heartily. "Oh, Jody."

**The End**


End file.
